It is the end of one year and the beginning of another, and with the turning of the year arises in me a sense of reflection about who I was and what I did in 2016, along with curiosity and intention about the coming year. Last year, I explored the idea of home. This year was all about storytelling. I had such big ideas a year ago of how I would chase this word down, how I would let it inspire me to take control of my stories and craft them and attach words to them so they do not just exist in my body. Instead, I found myself opening to the ways that my stories wanted to tell me. I learned that there are nuances to the idea of storytelling, that the narratives in my head that I repeat to myself that can be harmful to me or to my relationships are stories I want to work on un-telling.
Just as home didn’t take me where I thought it might, neither did storytelling. But both brought me more deeply back to myself. And that, ultimately, is why I choose a word: it is an intention, a spell, a way of channeling my focus throughout the year and deepening my exploration of a facet of my being that I want to connect with.
In my grand tradition of writing letters to myself, here’s one from me at the cusp of this year to myself where I stood a year ago.
Hello fierce storyteller,
The way you showed up for your life this year was nothing short of extraordinary. I want you to hear that, to fully receive it, to let it settle deep into your bones. I wish that you, from the beginning of 2016, could see a glimpse of all that you would create and become this year.
You chose storytelling as your word for the year, envisioning that you would spend a lot of time and energy devoted to writing down your long history of amazing stories into a format that could be transmitted to others. You thought you would be writing your book, and instead the level of writer’s block you’ve felt this year has been challenging and unexpected. You have journaled and blogged much less than in previous years, and it has taken significant work for you to be gentle with yourself about that.
But that doesn’t mean you haven’t been storytelling. In January, you started dancing, and that changed your life and your body and the very way you move through the world. If I could give you any single piece of advice about this year, it would be to show up for that first ecstatic dance. Let that container give you permission to move in your skin, to process and release emotions and traumas and stories lodged in your muscles and your fascia and your bones. Let the way you learn to dance be one of the most liberating stories of the year. Don’t ever stop dancing.
Let the beauty of what you love
Be what you do.
There are a thousand ways to kneel and kiss the ground.
There are a thousand ways to go home again.
These words will come to your mind towards the end of this year, as you find yourself on the Oregon coast at the winter solstice looking for heart-shaped stones. You will be walking along the beach, reflecting on all the work that needs doing and feeling inadequacy about your limitations and not being able to do all of it. You will wonder how your gifts can possibly be enough to do your part of being the healing of the wound when the wound feels so vast and your gifts so comparably small. Then you will see a heart-shaped stone in the sand, and in kneeling to pick it up will notice that the sand itself is made of tiny stones, and as you lean in even closer with a meditative state of focus, you will notice that some of those tiny stones are also heart-shaped. In inexplicable ways, part of your unique magic is expressed through seeing and collecting heart stones; you’ll find and bring home hundreds of them this year. And in that moment on the beach, after pressing your lips to the icy-cold sand, you will understand at the core of your being that whatever ways you are called to show up and offer yourself to the telling of the greater Story are enough. There are a thousand ways to kneel and kiss the ground, and this is one of yours. You are always going home again.
You have permission never to leave behind a written account of your existence. If your life full of fabulous stories ends up as nothing more than a multicolor mandala crafted from millions of grains of sand, sprinkled onto this beloved earth for just one lifetime’s worth of moments before being gathered up in a brilliantly wasteful display of impermanence, all is still well. You do not exist to produce evidence of your presence here. Just be present here.
Show up so deeply and fiercely for your life that when your flame is ultimately extinguished, you know that you burned as brightly as you could. Put down capitalistic ideals of all that you need to do with your precious time here and let your fragile self be gathered up in the interconnected webs of belonging that hold you fast. Let your heart be open to all that needs healing in this world, yes, but remember that the need is not the call. What the world needs is not the same as what the world needs from you. Be careful not to take on more of the world’s pain than you can metabolize; otherwise you will drown in it and not be able to do your work in this moment.
Dearest love, I know this year of exploring storytelling as your theme has not quite gone as you imagined it might. When you sat down at the end of last year to conjure up your word for 2016, you did not know where it would take you, but you knew you wanted to go there. And in your first blog post about it, prescient human that you are, you even named the word that would claim you for the following year as well:
In the last fifteen minutes of this year, I am committing to my word for 2016. I had a hard time deciding on this one (there were several strong contenders!). I know what this word will ask of me, and I am not quite sure if I have the courage to show up for it. But I want to go to the places it will take me and stuff my pockets with anything worth bringing back.
That’s my word. That’s my goal. Now that I’ve journeyed back home to my body, I need to explore all of the stories I carry. I need to remember where I came from and who I am and what my life wants from me.
I need to rest my palms on my sturdy trunk and feel that I, too, have roots. I belong in this world, and this world belongs in me.
Looking back even a little further, to your post on home, you predicted the words you would choose for the next two years: “Home is being my whole self and living an authentic life true to who I know myself to be, even if it means that some people will not accept me. Home is writing down my stories so I can share them with the world… Home is finally, finally, feeling like there is a place for me in the world, like I belong here, like I am a part of all that is.”
Storytelling taught you that Nayyirah Waheed was right in her poem when she said:
you were a writer
word to paper.
just because you were not
does not mean you were
This year also taught you about all of the stories you carry in your body that need un-telling. Again, Nayyirah Waheed said it first: every poem here / is an unwrite / of all that has been / written in me / without permission. You have been diligently unraveling strands of meaning and weaving them into a new whole self, a story you can clothe your body in, a soft bed where you can lay yourself down and rest.
You stood up on a stage in March and told a vulnerable story in front of a sizable crowd. You sat in countless circles and shared your name and your pronouns, which themselves speak volumes about the stories you’ve written with your life. One on one, with new friends and chosen family, you have spoken into being stories of your deep authenticity, weaving in magic that is uniquely your own. Every night, you write a few short lines in a small book designed to hold daily memories for five years’ worth of adventures.
You may not have written the extravagant book of your life that you aspired to compose in January, and that is just fine. You wrote new stories with your life, with your body, with the ways in which you showed up in the world to do your work and be the healing of the wound, of the wounds you carry and the wounds you’ve inflicted and the wounds you see in others and the deepest wounds of the world. Part of your realization this year is that storytelling does not require words.
The way you sit with people in labor and call tiny new humans into the world is a story.
The way you place your hand over someone’s heart and hold their gaze with pure love is a story.
The ridiculous love you have for your cats when they sit on your shoulder and head-butt you is a story.
The intuitive magic you bake into delicious food is a story.
The ways you stitch and weave and design crafty objects (crocheted uteruses, felt vulva ornaments, rainbow queer embroidery) is a story.
Your photographs are each stories.
The way you engage in intentional relationship-building, forming attachments with other people in co-created containers that have space for healing past traumas and fostering wholeness in connection: that is a beautiful story you keep writing every single day.
The way you move your once-frozen body on the dance floor, alone and with others, is a new story every time.
The ways in which you are making your body a place you can come alive are all stories.
The very fact that you still walk in the land of the living is such a precious story.
Your work still matters, even if it isn’t the work you thought it might be. What you are creating is your life. You will continue to write poetry, and blog occasionally, and fill in lines in your journal with who you are becoming. If you never write a book, that is perfectly okay (though I really think you will). Your very life is an epic poem, and it is up to you to keep on writing it into existence.
And now, now it is time to shift your focus to your new word. You saw this coming last year, when you expressed a “need to rest my palms on my sturdy trunk / and feel that I, too, have roots / I belong in this world, / and this world belongs in me.” You couldn’t have known then how much you would need to ground yourself in the world and in your sense of belonging here.
I don’t know what I will tell myself a year from now that I learned about belonging. It feels like an exquisite magic to speak to you in the past and to look forward to the things future me will tell me about what I have not done yet. I am curious if I have mentioned in this writing the word I will choose for 2018, as I’ve done in the past.
I want to know where belonging will take me. I want to know what it means to belong fully to myself, to feel like I belong in my body and in my communities and in my family and in the world. I want to feel like there is a place for me here. I want to explore how I interact with what I believe belongs to me, with my so-called belongings, and mindfully release what I hold onto that no longer serves me. I want to know what it is like to fit in a place or a context or an environment and to truly feel the level of acceptance that belonging suggests to me. I also want to continue to show up in the world and in my body in the ways I’ve been cultivating over the past year (and more).
There is a lot I am genuinely terrified of that might happen over the coming year, both political and personal. I want to hold the complexity of the myriad negative things that are happening in my life and in the world, but not be overshadowed by it. I want to make space for curiosity and wonder and joy and beauty and delight. I want to allow myself to continue to open to all that life is calling out of me and calling me into. I want to see how deeply I am a part of all that is, how the earth and the air and the fire and the water and the spirit are a part of me as much as I am a part of them. I want to explore connection to myself and to others and to feel myself woven into this web of belonging that will sustain me for as long as I exist in this form on this planet at this point in history.
Dearest Rob from 2016: thank you for the intention you put into becoming the storyteller, the author of all that you are writing into being in the world. Thank you for becoming more and more yourself, for becoming me.
And, to the person I am becoming over the next year who will write to me on the cusp of 2018 with a new word to explore: I am excited to see how this year turns me into you, how I belong to you and you belong to me and we both belong in the grand scheme of this extravagant life that each moment is contributing towards.
I stand up from kneeling, my hand full of sand gifted to me by the ocean. I will take these tiny grains of time and use them to draw a temporary masterpiece on the canvas of my body. I will not grieve as the waves wash them away, because I know that I am a part of all of it, and it is a part of all of me. That is what belonging means to me now. I will see what it means to me in 365 days.
So much love,
Me, right now